


(he says) i built the universe in you

by opheliahyde



Category: From Dusk Till Dawn: The Series
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Alternate Universe - Wings, Alternate Universe - Zombie Apocalypse, Bloodplay, Blow Jobs, Breathplay, Bruises, Canon-Typical Violence, Child Abuse, Drug Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Scars, Scent Kink, Shaving, Sibling Incest, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Underage Kissing, Underage Sex, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-22 18:21:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6089878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliahyde/pseuds/opheliahyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Twenty glances at The Gecko Brothers—refracted, reflective, reframed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PART ONE

**Author's Note:**

> This is essentially a two-part experimental, overachieving answer to [this](http://vanessagecko.tumblr.com/post/137762219829/10-sentence-meme) ten sentences meme I reblogged over on my tumblr. As you can see, these are not “sentences” because reasons (reasons mostly being _I have too many feelings_ ). Instead of answering just one ask for this pairing, I challenged myself to double the answer and thus, this came to be.

**ANGST**

The smack is easy to find—always had been, Seth knew you just had to ask around, know the right people, speak the right language and it was never far from reach, not for them— _not for him_.

(he’d thought about it when the nightmares hit him hard and fast and seemed like no end was in sight, fresh memories carving new invisible scars across the landscape of his mind, making him remember things he’d left in the past—the way it felt to hear his bones snap before the pain hit, how punch to the gut could topple him over, make him sick for days—but he never touched the stuff, liquor his drug of choice, the kind that burned his throat with irony and made his kisses sour when he smothered his brother’s mouth with them)

It took Seth a few tries to get it right— _find the vein, line up the needle, press down for oblivion_ —shooting up in some dirty gas station bathroom like a cinematic cliche, the kind he’d seen with Richie at his side, muttering critiques close to his ear; it burns going in, like Richie’s fangs when they sunk into the meat of his neck, marks still throbbing from his fingernails picking at new scabs, making himself bleed again and again.

Seth wonders if this is what the venom would feel like, the kind the good professor talked about, the kind Richie kept inside himself, controlled as ever, even after he’d been turned into a beast.

He pulls the needle out and runs his hand along his arm, his tattoo dark, raised and scaly under his fingertips.

  


 

 

**AU**

Mama used to tell him the story of how he was born without a soulmark, how she fretted and worried, scared of what it meant—there were a lot of rumors, old wives tales passed down, generation to generation, mouth to mouth, that those born without soulmark were destined to die before they met their soulmate, that it was a kindness and a burden to have unmarked skin and his mama didn’t want him to die young. The way Uncle Eddie tell it, he had begun crying the moment Seth was born, holding out his hand, skin of his wrist reddening until his mama had said his brother’s name—the letters of which etched onto his skin before Uncle Eddie’s eyes.

Seth hadn’t been born with clean skin like Richie, marked from birth as his from the start, red brand of Richie’s name that only grew darker with age—right over his heart.

Mama used to say it just meant they’d never be alone because they’d always have each other. Uncle Eddie watched them with careful, weary eyes, whispering to Mama about things he didn’t think Richie could hear (it’s not like he didn’t know already, the looks they got when strangers put two and two together, when Seth told his teachers, the unease that permeated through the air when it came out—Mama said it was rare, but not uncommon; _it happens_ , she said, stroking her fingers through his hair, _it just means you and your brother are special, that’s all_ ).

When Seth kisses him—a real kiss, not the innocent, childish pecks on his mouth that left Seth smiling and giggling and running away, but one that holds and steals Richie’s breath. He can feel his mama’s heart breaking, knowing that this wasn’t special, but a sickness born deep into their souls—one he can’t help though he tried, averting his eyes when Seth walked around without a shirt, his name bold on Seth’s chest, almost black now, scarred and charred, permeant, catching as bad as his bare golden skin.

Seth pushed his sleeve down after and ran his lips over his own name marked over Richie’s pulse, dragging Richie’s fingers to feel across the raised marks under Seth’s collarbone—he whispered, “hey brother, we’re a matching set,” like it made all the sense in the world.

  


 

 

**CRACK**

Richie doesn’t want to leave their apartment, even after Seth rigged him up a harness out of several leather belts that keep the wings flat against his back, folded up neat and smooth that they’re hardly noticeable under Richie’s shirt—he keeps sitting perched by the window, naked to the waist, framed by fluffy white wings, his cheeks red and splotchy, staring at Seth with his eyes like blue fire, narrowed and sharp like he might murder him any minute now.

  


 

 

**FUTURE FIC**

Seth wouldn’t say it was easy—it was a process, slipping into a routine, staying in one place, working every day instead of when they were running low on cash. For a while he had to tell himself it wasn’t fucking prison, he wasn’t _stuck_ and sometimes Richie would take him with him, private jets to places he’d never thought they’d see, Richie with his inherited connections all over the world, showing Seth it was more than their little truck stop plopped in between nowhere, a haven in the night, more than being cooped up and trapped. But now it feels like a new second skin, different and stretchier than the old; there’s still a performance—act tough, look tough, smooth talk it over.

Seth manages on a ground-level, keeping the employees happy, keeping them moving—fucking HR, is what Richie calls it—protecting the waitresses from groping hands and making sure they got their tips; _they love you_ , Richie says, creeping up behind his, lips on his ear, curving and twisting into smile. Seth can’t deny it, the warmth that flutters to life under his ribs when Marisol pecks his cheek and says, _thanks, sweetheart._

“You ever gonna do it?” Seth asks, rolling Richie over in bed, wrists pinned around his head against the pillow, Richie grinning up at him, arching but not bucking him off, letting Seth hold him, Richie’s waist bare and cool between Seth’s thighs. “Ever gonna make me like the rest of you freaks?”

Richie laughs, deep and hearty, shaking under Seth. “Maybe,” he says, licking his lips. “Ask nicely, and I’ll think about it.”

Seth kisses him instead, hard and wet, making Richie open up underneath him, making Richie yield, swallowing his deep groan, letting it shudder through him.

 _One day soon_ , Richie whispers to him after, against the back of his neck as he drifts off to sleep—his voice sharp and sad, like an end of something, but the beginning of another.

  


 

 

**FIRST TIME**

Seth hadn’t had much time to clean up, only a quick gas station bathroom trip to brush his teeth and wash his face with a cheap travel kit and change into street clothes—something inconspicuous that Richie had bought for him, something that looked and felt familiar, like Seth’s clothes, but the soft cotton henley stretched in places he hadn’t anticipated, shirt too small in the arms and chest where Seth had put on new layers of muscle. Richie had wanted to let him relax once they got into the motel room—ditched the van on the side of the road, holing up there until the chase died down, a day or two, then they’ll steal another car and move on—let him take a real shower and sleep in a real bed, but Seth reached for him first, fingers curling under his collar as Seth yanked him down, pulled him close and kissed him hard enough to make Richie gasp. Richie opened his mouth to Seth as he walked him back against the door, his hands skating under the too-tight shirt to get at Seth’s skin, touching him the way he’d been wanting to since he laid eyes on him for the first time in almost six years.

Seth still smells the same, under the layer of prison grime and dirt, even without a splash of his cologne, the deep musk is still there, rich where his neck meets his shoulder and Richie breathes it in, taking a hit to his chest, soft and aching as he groans, feeling Seth’s mouth on him, nipping and sucking, wasting no time in leaving a mark, low on Richie’s throat.

“Come on, come on,” Seth pants against his skin, fingers on Richie’s shirt buttons (he wants that, Richie wants it more than he can think about, the desire burning a hole in his gut, through his spine as he shudders, thinking what it’d feel like after all this time, wants to get Seth undressed and take in the change, learn the new cartography of his body—there’s time enough for that); Richie reaches for Seth’s wrists, pulling his hands away from his shirt, grabbing Seth by the elbows to move him around the room, backing him into a chair in the corner and getting to his knees between Seth’s spread thighs, trembling at the sound of Seth’s _fuck_ , at the gentle touch of his palm over the back of Richie’s head.

There’s a duality that gets Richie’s heart pumping, faster and harder, looking up at Seth as his fingers open the button of his jeans and draw down the zipper—Seth’s eyes familiar and dark, half-lidded, looking fucked out when Richie hasn’t touched him yet, lips red and swollen, cheeks ruddy.

He almost looks young, like the first time Richie did this, pushing Seth back onto a kitchen chair, telling him to sit as he got on his knees for him, natural pose fitting himself between his brother’s open legs, staring at his hard cock as Seth’s knees shook around his shoulders. Richie kisses the head, soft press of his lips to the reddened tip like the first time, like every time, tasting Seth again, warm and briny on his tongue, licking in slow short flicks, laving his tongue over Seth to get a taste of him, a feel for Seth’s cock in his mouth.

He hadn’t known what he was doing the first time, just that he wanted to do it, wanted to feel Seth fill him up and stretch his mouth, know what he tastes like, smells like. He ran his nose up Seth’s shaking thigh, breathing him in, the sharp scent that makes Richie’s head feel thick, a heady feeling that overtakes him when he buries his nose in the thicket of hair at the base of Seth’s cock, groaning at the epicenter of his scent, fuller, realer, shaped by sweat under his clothes, at the apex of his thighs, Richie moaning against Seth’s pubic bone, his cock throbbing hard in his briefs, edging towards painful, but he doesn’t get a hand on himself—keeps his hands on Seth’s legs, holding them apart as he traces a veins with the tip of his tongue, mapping out the shape of him with his mouth, sucking kisses into the underside, listening to the sounds of Seth’s choked breathing, the whining sobs and moans, his name bitten off Seth’s tongue, _Richie, fuck, Richie_.

Richie feels like he’s come home when he takes Seth into his mouth, sliding down on his cock slow, swallowing when his hits the back of his throat, hot under his clothes, warmer when Seth’s fingers scratch against his scalp, gripping fistfuls of his hair as Richie begins to suck, eyes cast up to meet Seth’s, holds his darkened gaze as he works up his cock, mouth already sore from the strain, lack of practice, lack of use, drooling down Seth’s cock like he was an inexperienced teenager, like the first time he’s ever had his brother’s cock in his mouth—pushing past the pain, working his mouth down his length again, loving the burn in his throat, the stretch, licking and sucking until Seth breaks, coming all over his tongue.

  


 

 

**FLUFF**

Richie considers it a gesture—not sure what kind, everything so cautious and careful in the aftermath when they blew this all up and are still fitting back together the pieces they can find in the wreckage, building something new and maybe not so combustible—when Seth asks him out and takes him to the fancy theater in town, the one with beer and a meal as the film plays in front of them. A new feature, instead of an old familiar story, one that Richie could follow along, line for line and it seems fitting, trying something new with Seth now, after the five years, then the three months, after he died and came back, not quite the same.

Seth reaches for his hand halfway through and examines Richie’s fingers in the dark, his breath warm and lips wet when he kisses them, one-by-one, a hitch growing in Richie’s throat that tightens when Seth kisses his palm and then curls their fingers together, holding his hand through until the credits, and long after, driving back to _Jackknife’s_ one-handed.

 

 

 

**HUMOR**

“For someone who says they have good business sense,” Seth snarls in Richie’s face, pulling on Richie’s tie, making the veins pop under the skin over his neck, “you keep scaring off our customers.”

Richie grabs for Seth’s shirt collar, but doesn’t shove him off, doesn’t use the strength Seth knows he could— _pathetic waste of culebra strength_ , Seth thinks, gritting his teeth. “It is good business sense to make sure we get paid what we’re owed—and besides, I can charge what I want, it’s _my_ business.”

Seth thinks about punching him, but they’re already making a scene—the staff is becoming accustomed, hardly try to separate them anymore, just walk around them, going about their business. “You can’t fucking _overcharge_ someone because you disagree with their taste in movies, Richard.”

“It wasn’t their taste, it was their _attitude_.”

Seth ends up tearing Richie’s tie, it snapping in his hands when he does punch him; his knuckles are going to be swollen for two days, but it’ll be worth it.

  


 

 

**HURT/COMFORT**

Richie hates having Seth’s blood on his hands.

(sometimes it feels like he was born with it staining his palms, reaching back in his mind to his earliest memories—Seth’s nose spilling red over his mouth, sticky with snot and thinning with tears as he cried and Richie tried to get to stop, getting it all over his hands; it took three days to clean it out from under his fingernails, just in time for Seth to bleed again)

It was a close graze, bullet cutting too close to his waist, almost punching through him, making him more damaged than he already was—but sometimes they have a little luck, and Richie knows he can stitch the wound when he gets Seth’s shirt off, his hands already sticky with blood, trying to keep Seth’s loss to a minimum, applying pressure as he drove one-handed, Seth’s head resting on the edge of his shoulder, muttering, _always got me, don’t you, big bro? always got my back._

(Richie bites down on his tongue so hard it bleeds, his own blood hot and metallic, tastes the same as Seth’s—he doesn’t want to be harsh with sharp edged, fear making him jagged and close to saying something he’ll regret, _it’s Seth’s fault and not, he never could help his mouth, or help pushing when he was already wound up, fire under his ribs burning too bright_ )

He shoves stolen painkillers into Seth’s mouth and makes him swallow them down with a shot of whiskey, hoping the combination will be powerful enough to knock him out, make him sleep as Richie patches him up, but Seth clings to wakefulness like he clings to Richie, sticky fingers leaving smears of his blood across Richie’s face as he strokes his cheeks, his jaw, petting his hair as Richie sew his broken open skin closed. “Gonna thank you later,” Seth says, whining low like Richie was touching him in more interesting ways, bulge growing in his pants. “Gonna take good care of you like you always take care of me.”

Richie brushes Seth’s damp hair off his forehead, leaning in to kiss his brow. “How about you work on healing first, huh?”

Seth doesn’t answer, watches Richie as he closes the stitch, arching up after Richie cuts the thread and running his lips over Richie’s mouth—not quite a kiss, wet and sloppy, breathing into Richie’s mouth as his eyelids flutter closed. “Thank you,” Seth says, voice thick with sleep—Richie has to push him back down onto the sofa cushions, Seth’s heart thudding hard but steady under his palm, holding him until his breathing evens out, Seth’s face falling open and slack, shaving off the years as Richie watches it happen, an ache in his gut.

“Rest up, baby brother.”  

  


 

 

**SMUT**

The first time, it’s an accident—that’s what Richie says after, kissing apologies into the marks, tells Seth he was getting too handsy, too mouthy, not letting Richie just fuck him the way he wanted to, slow and hard against the wall. His hand was supposed to cover Seth’s mouth—excuses that Seth wants to stop with his mouth on Richie's, his tongue a cork that Richie swallows down—but his hand fell on Seth’s throat. Richie pushes his head back against the wall from his jugular, squeezing his windpipe as Seth stares at him, full dark eyes and mouth open, not gasping, not breathing for a moment, existing where Richie held him, hand like a vice—then he shudders, comes apart against Richie, come warm and wet splashing back from Richie’s stomach.

He chokes, gasps when Richie lets him go.

 _Come on, brother_ , he breathes in his ear, voice ragged and rough, nails digging into his shoulder, _wanna feel you come now, wanna feel you fill me up_. It’s enough to send Richie over, eyes on the reddening mark blooming across Seth’s throat, hands leaving bruises on Seth’s hips.

The second time, Richie is heavy on Seth’s hips, riding Seth into the mattress of his over-large bed, the kind of luxury neither of them would have asked for, rocking fast on his cock while Seth twists his hand around Richie’s length, thumbing around the head as Seth eats up the noises Richie makes, Richie whining above him, Richie moaning for him, sweet and loud. The second time, Seth brings Richie’s hand to his neck, curling Richie’s palm around his throat, arching up when Richie holds him, pressing Seth down as he lifts his hips and shoves himself back onto Seth’s cock.

 _Yeah, fuck yeah_ , _that’s good, brother, so fucking good,_ Seth groans into the sensation, the grip of Richie’s hand heady and possessive, whimpering when Richie doesn’t grab as hard, doesn’t put enough pressure behind his grip—not knowing how to ask for it, not knowing what this is that turns his crank, gets him off like a shot, coming inside Richie as he works Richie to the edge, jerking and trembling, then spilling into Seth’s palm.

The third time, Seth asks.

Richie is working him open with one finger, then two—Seth poured over the too expensive sheets, stripped to his skin and legs splayed, spread for Richie’s hand, long fingers fucking him slow, methodical, meticulousness making Seth tremble and arch up, Richie with the intensity that he brings to everything, kneeling still dressed between Seth’s thighs.

Seth asks with a _please_ , bitten off by his clenching jaw, voice a sharp whine, coming out a yelp when Richie pulls his fingers out and wraps them around his neck, still slick on his throat when Richie squeezes—it goes right to his cock, a white-hot jolt of pleasure that crackles through his nerve-endings, makes his goddamn toes curl as he pushes against Richie’s hold, moaning when Richie shoves him back down, peering at him from above with darkened eyes, magnified by his lenses, flashing gold for a moment and Seth wishes his skin would ripple and turn to scales. But Richie watches him with his human face, letting off to stroke his thumb against his jugular, pressing in against his fluttering pulse, other hand slithering down his waist, winding around his cock—jerking him hard when he grabs Seth’s neck again.

 _This what you want, baby? Huh?_ Richie asks, panting against Seth’s mouth, twisting his hand around Seth’s cock in time to the pressure around his neck, _this what you like?_ Richie leans up to brush his lips across Seth’s forehead, kissing him there as Seth jerks and shakes under him, liking how it’s getting harder to breathe, his vision going fuzzy around the edges, how Richie’s holding him in every way, how his life is in Richie’s hand, pulsating under his palm.

 _It’s yours_ , he tries to say, but all he can do is rasp, cock leaking now over Richie’s hand, throbbing under his short, quick strokes, edging closer as Richie kisses his temple, then his cheek, kissing over his face as Seth’s world gets a little blacker—he comes with a whole body shudder, comes gasping into Richie’s mouth when he releases him, hand holding him down splayed across his collarbone, Richie kissing him back to life as he spills all over Richie’s hand, comes with Richie whispering, _it’s alright, I’ve got you, that’s it baby, I’ve got you_.

 

 

 

**UST**

When Seth’s all healed up, it’s mid-summer in K.C. and Seth keeps his arms bare, the black flames stark and on display, cast off his tan skin that grows golden under the sun, catching Richie’s gaze and holding his attention, tracing the paths the ink takes up his arm until it disappears under his shirt.

“Do you hate it?” Seth asks, eyebrows pulled together, a rare look of worry lining his features. “‘cause I’m kind of stuck with it now, brother.”

(his knees buckle, wanting to get to the ground and kiss every inch of his brother’s tattooed skin, wants to lick the sharp outline of the dark flames, and whisper his secrets there, what the mark means, more than Seth slurring into his ear in New Orleans, arm bandaged up, _you dragged me out of the fire, Richie, least I could do_ —wondering if Seth already suspected)

Richie swallows, throat dry, warm air scraping the insides of his throat; he shakes his head, meeting Seth’s eyes, unable to speak the truth for once, honesty stabbing through his tongue.


	2. PART TWO

**ANGST**

Santanico takes him hunting after they cross the border, finding a bed and breakfast to check into for a place to rest come morning—not the hole-in-the-wall, one-star kind of place Richie would have picked, the kind he and Seth stayed in when they were on a job out of state—too comfortable, too much like a home that it makes his skin itch looking around at their room while Santanico changes in the bathroom, breathing out only when they leave and the cool night air breezes across his face.

She hasn’t been free in centuries, but there’s an instinctual reaction to how Santanico operates, leading him towards the nearby metropolitan area, leading him into a club that he would have avoided before. Richie still wants to avoid it now that his senses are keen and sharp, that much more overwhelming as the bass thunders in his ears, feels like a heartbeat he lost a day ago, much like everything else, but he tries to shed his old skin like the creature he is now, tries to concentrate through the swarm of bodies. Santanico’s hand slips from his own as she moves like she was always meant to be here, finding the rhythm Richie lacks and dancing like the first time he saw her, fleshy and real, but this time for herself.

(it works like a con, the kind Seth was better at, Santanico hooking and reeling in some poor sucker on the dancefloor with false promises and a flutter of her eyelashes—playing pretend, acting in order to land the score, but this time it wasn’t a wallet but a life)

Richie finds a mark at the bar—dark hair, dark eyes, pink lips swelling around the top of a beer bottle; he laughs under his breath, horrible choking sound when the guy smiles at him, buys him a drink, and all Richie can see is Seth’s face before he turned and walked away, doesn’t catch his name when he shakes Richie’s hand, smooth soft skin against Richie’s palm.

There’s ink on his arm—black and tribal encompassing his bicep, warm under Richie’s fingers as he traces the tattoo, backing him up against the wall, concrete bricks at his back as he looks up at Richie under full lashes; he’s younger than Seth, less lines on his face, less time done in prison, no specs of silver in his hair. Richie kisses him before he goes for his neck, one smothering kiss that feels more like a snakebite than when his fangs sink in and the blood rushes warm and sweet over his tongue, memories of another life flooding his mind, flickers and crackles like something alive until it dulls.

“Sorry,” Richie gasps, pulling off, the guy limp in his hands but pulse still there, weak but fighting. “I’m so fucking sorry,” he says, lowering him to the ground and taking off his jacket, covering him with it as Richie leave him there, not quite dead.

Santanico doesn’t ask where his jacket is when he finds her inside, wiping her mouth, a few blood stains on her dark dress; doesn’t ask when she hears him call 911 later, speaking the address of the club and hanging up, only strokes his hair when he lays beside her, and whispers, “it’ll get easier, _mijo_.”

 

 

 

 

**AU**

They made a pact, him and Richie—if either of them got bit, the other wouldn’t fucking hesitate; _promise me, brother_ , Richie had spat in his face, wrestling Seth against the siding of some suburban house they were looting for necessities, non-perishables and first aid supplies to carry with them, stuff to keep on their backs as they kept moving (found the family inside, too, rotting corpses cuddled together on the sofa, placed there gently by loving hands, each with neat little bullet in their foreheads, except the father—mouth open, the back of his head blown open), _fucking promise me_.

Seth had promised, shuddering under Richie, trembling and shaking—he’d promised with a kiss that turned his stomach, but he kept their mouths together, holding Richie to him with his fingers gripping his hair, licking into his sour mouth, tongue stroking the roof of Richie’s mouth, mapping out his _yes, I promise_ as Richie kissed him until they ran out of breath, panting as they broke away, sagging for a moment into each other.

Seth didn’t tell him that if Richie ever got bit, Seth was biting the bullet after him—maybe it was implied, Richie’s eyes locking onto his, staring deep like he understood, like he could see into Seth’s mind—or maybe they were one and the same, him and Richie.

They’ll live and die together.

 

 

 

 

**CRACK**

It’s not much different—Seth still causes a mess, knocking things over when he jumps too high, walking on the ledge of the bar, smashing liquor bottles on the floor; still gets in Richie’s face, clawing up his shirt and yowling displeased and loud, still curls up over Richie when he sleeps, a low rumbling purr taking Richie under—Seth’s just smaller, with more fur.

 

 

 

 

**FUTURE FIC**

Richie wonders if he’d note the passage of time like time markers if he’d had been human, if he’d been allowed to age alongside Seth, if he would have felt every passing second like the countdown to something terrible— _you know how to fix it_ , Seth told him five years back, rubbing his back after he trembled and shook, looking at the date on the calendar and realizing Seth was forty. He was beginning to look it, started way back then, after prison, but now the silver streaks had grown into patches at his temples, coloring the beard he keeps full time now, shading his dark hair with a distinguishment that only comes with age, lines on his face deeper, adding a depth of character that Richie likes to trace in bed.

( _hey, babe,_ Seth breathed into his mouth the night of his forty-fifth birthday, beard burning and scraping Richie’s cheeks, _didn’t think I’d make it this far, that’s gotta count for somethin’, right?_ )

Richie tries to see change in his face, but it’s the same as the day he walked into the Twister, same as the day he was shot through and brought back to life with a bite—Seth says his eyes tell a story and he’s never quite sure what that means, when Seth is tracing the pads of his fingers under his lash line, staring into him and through him, close enough his warmth seeps into Richie, heart fluttering like a bird in a cage—Seth was always alive in ways he wasn’t, so maybe it was fitting, they ended up this way.

( _immortality is overrated_ , he tells Seth, holding him underneath him, wincing at the creak in his bones, _just ask Scott_ —he never wanted much more than this anyway, just him and Seth, one lifetime; even that seemed like he was bargaining for too much)

“I could always ask someone else to do it,” Seth says, every few years, old dusty threat that’s lost all its power—he never does, Seth just likes reminding Richie that he could, that he could take his choice away and take it into his own hands. But another year always passes, and Seth gets more gray hair.

(he lets Seth roll him on his back and hold him down, hands tough and leathery—he looks a bit like Eddie now, but with sharp dark eyes that could cut Richie open if he wasn’t careful— _didn’t take you for a romantic fatalist, brother; gonna give Scott the honors of driving a stake through your heart after I kick the bucket—hell of a way to make amends_ )

People stare when they go out, waiters looking at the gold bands on their fingers and glance at Richie’s false youth and Seth’s raw age, then stumbling over their rehearsed lines of service, Seth grinning at him from across the table, saying, “they think I’m your sugar daddy, brother,” when they’re out of earshot, teeth flashing in the candlelight.

“It’s your baby face,” Seth says later, one hand on his cheek, the other opening his belt--got Richie against the wall of some alley, like old times, like they we’re still a couple of kids. “I look like could be your father now.”

Richie grabs for his tie, holding it tight until Seth chokes, lips curving. “I’m still older than you.”

“Yeah,” Seth gasps out when Richie lets go, slipping his hand into Richie’s pants, palm warm around his cock, “you’re still my _big_ brother.”

(Richie doesn’t know how to say _I don’t want to be the one to take away your life_ , doesn’t know how to explain how it tears at his insides, chest aching from the force of it, only soothes when he lays his head on Seth’s chest, listening to the thumping rhythm until it dulls the ache— _I don’t want to watch you die, either_ )

 

 

 

 

**FIRST TIME**

The first time had hurt more than Seth had thought it would, even after all the careful prep and Richie adding more lubrication—it had been sharp, shaking up his spine as Richie slid inside him, looking down from on top of him, sweaty and red-faced, just as nervous and trembling, two of them fucking kids doing something they probably shouldn’t have, two kids without any clue of what to do. But the pain gave way to burn, to stretch, then Richie was all the way inside him, hot and pulsating and filling him up, and all he could remember wanting was more, hands slipping across Richie’s slick back as he arched under him, Richie staring like he never wanted to stare at anything else.

(after, Richie held him, couldn’t stop kissing his forehead, his cheeks and wanted to clean him up, but Seth kept him in bed, kept close, clenching and feeling his cock fill and twitch at the empty feeling—sore, slick and dripping between his legs, wanting Richie to fuck him again)

Seth offers Richie his throat the way he offered him his body, too young to know what he was asking--maybe even now, he didn’t know what he was asking, courting a kind of danger he always chased, this time shoving Richie back in his Big Boss chair and climbing into his lap, tugging on his hair as he arches his neck, commanding him to _feed_. It hurts, like the first time, and the time before that—Seth should have predicted, had always known what it was like to be broken open by Richie, to allow him to take what he gave up; like being fucked, in the worst way as Richie wraps an arm around his waist and yanks Seth close as his mouth sucked on his vein--better use for it, at any rate.

(after, Richie wants to bandage him, tries to go to get gauze, but Seth shoves at his shoulders, keeps himself planted in Richie’s lap, grinding his hips over Richie’s, eating up the gasp Richie offers him, the sharp whimpering moans when Seth gets his hand on him, his hand around both their cocks, rubbing them together, Richie’s hands gripping his ass; Seth grins against Richie’s throat as he laps at the wound he left on Seth’s neck)

 

 

 

 

**FLUFF**

Seth used to read to Richie when they were younger, weekend nights when neither of them have to wake up early for school, enough time for Seth to get through a few chapters at a time, Richie’s head in his lap, his fingertips stroking his scalp as Seth took it slow and steady, keeping pace as the words cleared for him— _good practice_ , Richie told him, when he suggested it, letting Seth pick out a few books from the library without sneering or wrinkling his nose at the titles, listening without commentary, just breathing out and in, glasses off, relaxed like he could be asleep, but blinks up at Seth when he stops, just to check.

It became a ritual, less frequent as they grew older, but sometimes Richie would toss Seth a book and climb into bed, waiting for him to get under the covers—after a rough job, when it was storming out, loud with bright flashes of lightening, and they were stuck inside, when Richie caught a cold and his forehead was feverishly hot whenever Seth stroked it.  

(Seth couldn’t read in prison without his chest aching, a heavy throb that squeezed around his heart until his eyes burned and pricked at the corners, going to sleep wondering how Richie relaxed now that he was no longer there to tell him stories.)

The first time Richie hands him a book, Seth isn’t sure what to do with it, flipping the pages under his thumb as Richie undresses in front of him, their eyes hooked and staring as Richie slips under the covers of the bed they’re only just beginning to share again—Seth’s muscles are rusty, but they remember, shedding his clothes before he crawls in beside Richie, settles back against the pillows as Richie curls over his lap, position old and familiar as Seth’s hand falls to his neck, toying with the ends of his hair.

Seth’s throat is dry, but the words come easy as he reads, “Shadow had done three years in prison. He was big enough and looked don't-fuck-with-me enough that his biggest problem was killing time. So he kept himself in shape, and taught himself coin tricks, and thought a lot about how much he loved his wife.”

 

 

 

 

**HUMOR**

It’s a week after the reopening of Jackknife Jed’s when Seth gets shitfaced off their new liquor collection, stealing an expensive bottle of whiskey off the rack and holds onto it while he skims through their jukebox selection, swaying and holding onto the glass—it’s two in the morning when Seth blasts opening strains of The Penguins’ _Earth Angel_ , turning around on the floor as he takes another hit from the bottle in his hand, ignoring the bleary looks from the truckers who had only come in to wind down from a long drive before heading to bed.

Seth grabs him when Richie tries to take the bottle away, making Richie turn and sway, a half aborted dance step as Seth whispers in his ear, “come on, dance with me.”

“You need to go to bed,” Richie tells him, going for the bottle again.

It smashes in the struggle, Seth gaining a burst of strength and traction enough to tackle Richie against the jukebox, the song skipping as Seth pants in his face, breath rancid and sour, eyes dark and unfocused as he looks up at Richie, hands gripping his jacket. Seth passes out easy, slumping against him, head tucked under Richie’s chin; it’s easy to pick him up now, even when he’s out cold, arm under his knees, arm across his back.

The staff know not to say anything the next morning by the look Richie gives them as he passes through.

 

 

 

 

**HURT/COMFORT**

Richie never cries—it scares him sometimes, how Richie can go limp and still, take the fists flying at him when he gets in the way of hits meant for Seth, curling in on himself when Ray kicks him and doesn’t make a sound, eyes open in a wide-eyed glazed over stare that shivers down Seth’s spine, frozen, crouched on the floor, watching as anger burns away the chills.

Ray gives up easy with Richie, not enough reaction to keep him going—not enough of a challenge when Richie doesn’t fight back, not like Seth—biting, scratching, spitting, hot words thrown out like barbs, seeking to maim, give as good as he gets. It’s hard to get him to come back, running his hands over Richie’s arms as Ray storms out of the apartment, shaking the walls when he slams the door, but Richie comes to in inches, with every breath, choking and coughing and Seth rubs his hand over Richie’s back. “Help me up,” Richie says, sliding his arm over Seth’s narrow shoulders, trusting him with his weight.

Seth carries him into their room and shoves a chair under the knob as he sets Richie down on their bed. “I’m not bleeding, I don’t think,” he says, unbuttoning his shirt, peeling away the cotton to reveal new bruising, red and violent, exploding across his right side. “Small favors.”

He crosses to Richie’s side, helping him pull off his shirt, fingers grazing the welts over the old scars left behind, tokens of Ray’s affection. “I’m gonna kill him,” Seth says, tries to make it hard, cold and resolute, but his voice cracks, hiccuping over the syllables as his eyes burn, pricking at the corners, crying like a baby as Richie smiles at him, soft curve of his mouth. “One day I’m gonna fucking kill him.”

Richie hushes him, fingertips on his mouth, hand in his hair, but Seth pushes him away, and leans closer—Richie’s skin is hot under his mouth, like he’s got a fever, but Seth doesn’t pull back, kissing his collarbone and moving lower, mapping out the edge of the bruising with his mouth.

Richie inhales, quick and sharp, his voice strained when he speaks. “Seth,” he says, hands on his shoulders, but he doesn’t shove Seth, just keeps his hands on him, “you shouldn’t do that don’t—” Richie exhales, trembling and quick, “—please stop.”

But Seth likes how it feels to kiss Richie’s ribs, embedding a different sort of memory in his skin, making the bruising hurt less, rubbing it over with affection—the least Seth can do, all he can do, except wrap Richie up in an ace bandage and hope nothing’s broken, will do it after he’s kissed every inch of his brother’s purpling skin, what he got for protecting Seth.

Richie doesn’t cry until Seth is done, tears dripping off his chin onto Seth’s cheek, quiet like everything Richie does. Seth wipes Richie’s face with his thumbs, holding his head in between his palms.

 

 

 

 

**SMUT**

His hair still grows—makes sense, if he doesn’t think too hard and try and piece together the science of it; his heart still beats, slight and imperceptible, just enough to keep his body moving free and not stiff. His lungs still work in order to fit in, old habit of breathing telling him they’re still there, filling and shrinking with oxygen—it’s just slower now, weeks to grow back stubble instead of a day. There’s more than stubble since Richie last asked Seth for this, hasn’t touched it since before Seth went into prison and after there was never enough time, but now he sets the shaving cream out on the nightstand, along with his new straight-razor, towels and hot water. His robe slips off easy, leaving it on the chair in the corner as he climbs onto the bed and waits without clothes, keeps his legs spread, an invitation and a suggestion.

Seth stares when he comes in, eyes open and raw, gaze fire-hot, raking down Richie’s body in a way that elicits a shudder, goosepimples erupting on his skin, but it doesn’t stop Seth from moving, quick to touch, quick to act, not one for drinking in the sight but needing to experience. “It’s been a while,” Seth says, voice rich, caressing Richie’s ear, his fingertips warm on Richie’s hipbone, tracing the edge of the growth as he cuts across Richie’s hips, stroking him. “Didn’t think you wanted this anymore.”

Richie groans low in the back of his throat when Seth combs his fingers through the thicket of dark curly hair around the base of his cock, missing the way he used to flush, missing the burn working up his chest into his cheeks—he still trembles, gut twisting at how hard he gets for this. “I haven’t had the opportunity to ask.”

“And now you do,” Seth says, palm of his hand moving from Richie’s pubic bone to around his balls, cupping his sack careful, gentle. “Everything?”

Richie can’t push the words past his lips, so he nods, hips jerking up when Seth’s thumb grazes the underside of his cock.

Seth nudges Richie’s legs up, bent at the knees and splayed at his sides, more open, more room for Seth to work, dampening the hair with a wet towel soaked in warm hot water. Seth lathers up the cream between his hands, smoothing it on Richie as he crouches between his legs, near grazes making his cock throb and leak, but Seth’s a professional—doesn’t touch him while he works. His heart would be pounding, breath caught in his throat, but now he just shakes. Richie has always been better with a blade, but Seth hadn’t been far behind him, steady hands with the razor just like his hands on a gun, and Richie gasps at the first swipe, blade cool against his skin, slicing through a patch of hair, against the pattern of growth until all that’s left is smooth skin, Seth’s calluses rubbing over his bare skin.

It’s one of the few times Seth seems to have learned from him—focused on the task in front of him, methodical in his process, slow and careful, eyes intent on his task, like he knows the danger of applying an open blade to Richie’s most delicate parts; it makes Richie come apart, piece by piece, watching Seth shave away his hair with each swipe of the blade, each movement applied with a precision that makes Richie pant, whining low as he tries to keep still, Seth lifting his sack to clean away the hair.

Seth washes away the excess shaving cream, water lukewarm now, but it feels good on Richie’s newly bare skin, better when Seth gets his hands on him, setting the blade aside to inspect the results with his fingertips, then his palms, rubbing and stroking, giving his balls a squeeze—not touching his cock, thick laughter rolling across Richie’s skin when he moans, loud and open, hips rocking into Seth’s hand.

“Want me to take care of this for you, too?” he asks, tracing the path of a vein, smearing his fingers through the wetness at the head of Richie’s cock. “Huh, brother?”

“Please,” is all he can force out, sharp and needy.

Seth slips to his stomach, his cheek rough with stubble, burning the inside of Richie’s thigh as he nuzzles his face there, his mouth wet and open over his balls, licking the smooth skin to the underside of Richie’s cock, eyes on Richie’s as he licks up his length, tongue circling the head before Seth takes him all the way inside—mouth hot and wet and so fucking sweet, swallowing Richie down, and sucking him as he lets up.

It doesn’t take much to come, teetering on the edge, too close when Seth had gotten his mouth on his cock, groaning, _fuck, fuck, god, Seth_ and shooting off down his brother’s throat, hands gripping the sheet under him, Seth’s eyes never leaving his, mouth wrapped around the base of Richie’s cock, hands stroking Richie’s hips, his waist, petting him through the come down.

 

 

 

 

**UST**

Seth didn’t know when it started, when this started to do it for him, Richie breaking out into scales with yellow eyes and fangs out, snarling as he goes for a poor sucker’s throat, tearing him open with his razor mouth. It’s messy, bloody, but it doesn’t make his stomach churn, guts queasy, like he might puke on the pavement; opposite now, it gets his blood going, hot and pumping, watching Richie hunt and kill, turns his fucking crank to watch Richie tear some unlucky fucker apart and Seth doesn’t know why that doesn’t make him sick.

Richie tries to clean up when he turns back, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, scales receding to pale skin, and Seth wants to dig his fingers into his cheeks, tell him, _change back_ , but his hands are fists at his sides, panting as Richie stares at him, wide-eyed and trembling.

“You okay?” he asks, a splotch of blood on his collar, more staining his sleeve.

Seth can’t tell him, _no_ , doesn’t want him to get the wrong impression and doesn’t want to explain the pulsation between his thighs, willing the ache to go away as he shakes his head. “I’m just peachy, brother.”

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://richiesseth.tumblr.com)!


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